It's nine days to Nawruz (or Nowruz, or however you choose to spell it - my family has written it Nawruz since I was a child), and this year, for the first time in several years, I will get to celebrate it in Persian style with my family in Vancouver: the haftsin, sabzi polo mahi, my uncles playing Rook, lots and lots of tea and saffron and dancing.
This morning, I had a discussion with my (boxing) trainer about being Persian versus, say, Arabic. I'll be honest: I was born and raised in America, and my gleanings of Persian culture come from visiting my Dad's family in Vancouver, where they have lived since the 1980s. Indeed, growing up I had very little sense of my own culture, and, being half-and-half anyway, I suppose I didn't want to emphasize my own differences with my peers. Having a name like Adib did that plenty on its own.
These days, more than anything, being Persians means family to me. It's my connection to my past and my blood. And, strangely enough, I find myself wanting to tell stories about it. In fact I already have the beginnings of an idea for a novel. I have two works-in-progress right now, so that'll have to be on the back burner. But I can't wait to dive in.